


Crimson Lady

by AbsinthexMind



Series: Oh brother where art thou [37]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aggression, Arranged Marriage, Attraction, Brother/Sister Incest, Budding Love, Consensual Incest, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, Platonic BDSM, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Denial, Sibling Incest, aggressive reader, she's gonna beat up ramsay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 02:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19758595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsinthexMind/pseuds/AbsinthexMind
Summary: Sansa should have known better. Of course she'd be every part of a Bolton as her brother Ramsay was.





	Crimson Lady

The young Lady Bolton was in many ways a lot like her father and brother. Her face was harsh, not to say it wasn’t any less lovely, but lovely in a cruel sort of way. Same ghostly pale eyes that were haunting yet oh so alluring. Sansa knew from whispers that (y/n) had been legitimized before her older brother Ramsay, something that Sansa thought would surely irk her new husband. This fact didn’t seem to bother Ramsay though. Actually, much to Sansa’s surprise, Ramsay adored his little sister even if she did get the honor of holding the house name Bolton rather than Snow as he did. Sansa had thought Ramsay incapable of such tender affection. He had certainly showed no kindness to her in such a way. 

And (y/n)? Well, Sansa had learned well from Petyr Baelish not to trust anyone no matter how kind they outwardly appeared. How could she not trust her though? (y/n) was the only one to show her any kind of genuine warmth since arriving back to what she once called her home. And as much as Sansa wanted to hate the girl she couldn’t. It wasn’t her fault that her father had played a huge part in the murder of her mother and brother. (y/n) didn’t ask to be born a Bolton. In fact there was a time when it was just (y/n) and Sansa alone in the castle, Ramsay having gone off to hunt something or someone. Grudgingly Sansa had gone back to her hobby of needlework, so foreign to her now after all she had gone through. She wasn’t a little girl anymore and was out of practice. The two had gotten to talking of their history. Betrayals and heartaches that Sansa suffered in King’s Landing, (y/n)’s life before she became a legitimate daughter of Roose Bolton. 

“I much preferred being a bastard.” (y/n) had confessed, pulling the needle with skilled fingers through the canvas. Already she had half of a red bird done. 

Sansa remembers her own bastard brother that was now confined in the Brotherhood. “You didn’t feel ashamed?” 

Her face scrunches up in indignation ad she sets her hoop on her lap, looking sternly at Sansa. Immediately Sansa regrets her question. “Shame for what? My father should be the one who’s ashamed. He’s the one who sired bastards and put a stain on his own name. Being legitimate has brought me no happiness. I was much more happier being a Snow. Back when it was just my brother and I.” As if stuck in her memory, her pale eyes shift to her hand that still held the needle and thread. “It was so much simpler back then. But Ramsay was never satisfied. Unlike me, he’s always wanted to have the name Bolton.” 

The hound that was dozing at (y/n)’s feet let out a soft snore. It brought (y/n) back to the present and a bit embarrassed she returns to sewing. 

“I’m sorry.” Sansa murmurs. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” A lot she had been taught about bastards was from her own mother. Bitter about having to raise another woman’s child, Catelyn Stark never cared for Jon Snow and would heavily criticize any bastard that came across her. She was bitter of what had happened between Ned and this unknown woman. Sansa felt shame for how she had treated Jon in their youth. She had taken too much of what her mother had said to heart. There was much truth in what (y/n) had said about not being any happier being a Bolton. Many times Sansa saw how solemn the young girl was if she were by herself. The only time she saw a spark of life on (y/n)’s face was when she was playing with her hounds and when she was with Ramsay. 

She shrugs waving it off. “That’s alright. Many wouldn’t understand. I know there are a lot of bastards who would be happy to be legitimized. They live in poor circumstances. Not me though.” There’s a meloncholic quality to her tone. “I had everything I needed when I was a Snow.” 

There was something about her sadness that Sansa found beautiful. Something in her raw emotions that captivated the Stark girl.  
  
*  
  


When you saw a bruise on Sansa’s cream skin, you knew what it was from. Knew who it was from. Anger flared up in you. You had left her in a quizzical state to go hunt down your brother. Of course you knew that Ramsay had to consummate his marriage with her. It was something you had to accept. She was a lovely girl and you didn’t blame him. What you did blame him for was harming her. You didn’t mind it when he got rough with you. The two of you enjoyed in rough intercourse. You reveled in your own bruises you got from fucking your brother. Loved how he completely dominated over you and made you his. But to do something like that to Sansa? Unforgivable. She didn’t ask for this. You knew it was rape. Ramsay knew it. Sansa knew it. And to make matters worse was that he was hurting her so much that he left signs of it on her beautiful skin. You couldn’t stop him from fucking her, it was expected from him; but you could at least stop him from doing it in such a painful way. 

“Ramsay.” 

Your voice, full of authority, had the other men around your brother jumping out of their skins. The clanging of metal stopped at your entrance into the training grounds. Now you knew you looked much like your father when you were angry as it made everyone uncomfortable to be in the same place as you. 

Ramsay turns around, his smile full at the sight of you. “My sweet sister! Whatever is the matter?” 

“I need to have a private word with you.” 

“Surely it can wait. I’m in the middle of-” 

You pull out a dagger from the sleeve of your dress, holding it by the blade tip, and throw it at your brother. It grazes his cheek and lands behind him in the hardwood wall of a neighboring stall. The men look aghast and even Ramsay loses his smile. No other person would dare do something like that to Ramsay, not if they valued their life at least. 

“Now, brother.” 

Ramsay clears his throat before following after you like a dog who had just been scold. People thought Ramsay was the cruel one. They had never seen your work. 

You take him down to the dungeons of Winterfell, a place that had been hell for many and immediately you sense your brother’s hesitation. 

“Come along brother.” 

“Whatever this is about, (y/n), we can talk this through.” He refuses to take another step. “Or, did you have something more intimate in mind? Is it going to be that kind of session?” A lusty smirk twists his face. 

You smile slyly. “Come with me and you’ll find out.” 

One of two things could happen. The both of you knew this. Whenever Ramsay brought someone down here it was for torture. When you brought him down there it was for a mix of torture and pleasure. 

Ramsay was willing to gamble on it. When he got close enough to you, you quickly sat him down in a chair and with lightning fast hands you tighten the restraints that were on the arms so that he couldn’t move. He was your’s now. Ramsay knew that by the looks of the concern finally flashing in his gaze to you. 

He knew your switch had been turned on. You were in Bolton mode. Not sweet (y/n) Snow. No, that girl was dead for the moment. 

“I saw bruises on Sansa’s beautiful skin. Skin that should never be damaged in such a barbaric manner unless she requests for it as I do.” 

Your brother attempts to laugh it off. “Oh my darling sister. Are you jealous? You know I must produce an heir with-” 

No one would’ve ever pictured your tiny hands capable of latching onto Ramsay’s jaw to snap it shut with such fury. “I’m not jealous. Do not interrupt me again or I’ll sew your mouth shut. What you are doing to her is not the same as between us. You are harming her against her will. I’ll sit quietly while you fuck her, but that is all you should be doing. Not hurting her in the process. Rut her and leave her be.” Your fingers tighten into the skin of his jaw. “If I find one more bruise on her-” 

He hadn’t even been aware of where your other hand had been. It was pressing a knife dangerously to his crotch. “I’ll do to you what you did to Theon Greyjoy. Believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do since we both know how much I love your lower appendage. But I will protect that girl as much as possible. We’ve taken her home. Killed her family. And now you shame her more.” You back away and observe his face. “I at least won’t be a part of it.” 

Ramsay’s breathing hard, eyes pinpoint with a mix of fear and arousal. Chest moving fast as he tries to collect himself. One emotion at a time. He would deal with fear first. “Very well, (y/n). I will treat her as a lady in the bed. But. . . can I still treat you as I do?” 

“As long as I see you’re keeping your word.” You turn around and head back up the stairs. 

“(y/n)! You’ve forgotten to untie me!” 

“Figure it out yourself.” You call back.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  


Sansa didn’t know what was going on, but for the past couple of nights when Ramsay would visit her to consummate their union he wasn’t rough at all. In fact, he would just tell her to get naked and turn around. A few pumps later and he was done. No ramming into her mercilessly or anything of the sorts. 

She was grateful of course, but confused as to why he would completely change. 

Was it (y/n)? His sister had been very upset when she caught sight of her bruises. She had left in a fury and didn’t speak a word of it after that. Sansa couldn’t think of anything else. It had to be (y/n)’s doing. 

That night Ramsay didn’t even visit her so Sansa had the night completely to herself without any fear of Ramsay dropping by. 

How could they be so different? (y/n) was only a year younger than Ramsay; had the same mother and father. Everything yet she turned out so much more. . . 

Sansa stopped in her embroidery, fingers in mid air holding onto her needle. 

(y/n) was kind and lovely, sad and thoughtful; she was so many things. 

It had been quite some time since she’d felt. . . attracted to someone. And it just so happened to be toward the same sex. The last time she had developed a crush was on Joffrey and gods did that go sour quickly. Was it her doom to be attracted to people that it would never work out with? 

Oh but how (y/n) brightened her day up. Even she had admitted of the atrocities her father and brother have done and asked for Sansa’s forgiveness. (y/n) had nothing to apologize for on her behalf. If only the Bolton girl knew that without her Sansa would be in much worse shape than she was. (y/n) may not have been happy to be a Bolton, but Sansa was. She was glad that (y/n) was the person she was. That she was born into that family and met her. If she hadn’t been born a Bolton, Sansa would be all alone and suffering at Ramsay’s hands. 

Normally Sansa never would have ventured out of her room at night. Even if Winterfell had once been her home, she couldn’t trust those who lurked there now. But she had to talk to (y/n) and ask her if it was truly her intervention that was stopping Ramsay from being brutal in their marital bed. 

She feared being caught so she took no source of light and instead relied heavily on her memories of the castle to find her way to (y/n)’s chambers. 

Outside of the door, before Sansa could even knock, she could already hear soft whimpers. Her hand stops, fingers curled as she was prepared to knock. It was still early in the night where not everyone was asleep. Still. . . It sounded like (y/n) was crying. 

A lump developed in her throat. Should she intrude? Comfort her? How would she even go about comforting her? It had been a while since she ever gave comfort to anyone. 

Unable to make up her mind there came another voice from the other side of the door. A muffled voice, but Sansa would know it from anywhere. Ice ran through her veins. Ramsay. 

What was he doing to her? 

Anger fueled Sansa to throw open the door. The sight that she met made her face grow deathly pale. 

(y/n) was naked, bound by chains and blinded by silk over her eyes. Her body was arched so that her butt was sticking up in the air. There were vivid red streaks scattered from her back to her thighs, many were trickling with blood some were merely shallow welts. And there was Ramsay standing over her equally as stained with her blood. A whip in his hand and a crazed glint in his eyes. He too was naked, an erection prominent between his legs. 

She was utterly speechless. Ramsay, however, was not. 

“Ah dear wife, what are you doing up so late?” 

(y/n)’s body freezes as her hands try desperately to get out of her binds to remove her blindfold. Ramsay drops his whip and rubs (y/n)’s cunt with his hand. 

“Ssh, sweet sister. I’ll get back to you.” 

“Wh. . .What are you doing to her?” Sansa didn’t know what else to say; what else to do. She felt freezing cold all of a sudden and the world around her seemed to distort unnaturally as Ramsay strides closer to her. 

His grin scares her. Never before had it had an effect like that on her. Previously it had just annoyed her. But now. . . Now she didn’t know what to make of it. 

Ramsay reaches the door, his hand on it prepared to close it. He leans forward enough so that his face is mere inches from Sansa’s. “I think you should go back to bed, wife.” Then he shuts the door leaving Sansa in the dark.


End file.
